Many Many Moons/The Blue Duck
PART I
FLYING MOCCASINS
THE BLUE DUCK[1]
To be read
with a vigorous
lilt emphasizing
the drumbeats
with a vigorous
lilt emphasizing
the drumbeats
Hí! Hi! Hí! Hi!
Hí! Hi! Hí! Hi!
Heé-ya! Hói-ya!
Heé-ya! Hói-ya!
Keétch-ie Má-ni-dó, Má-ni-dó,
The hunter-moon is chipping,
Chipping at his flints,
At his dripping bloody flints;
He is rising for the hunt,
And his face is red with blood
From the spears of many spruces,
And his blood is on the leaves
That flutter down.
The Winter-Maker, White Bee-bóan,
Is walking in the sky,
And his windy blanket
Rustles in the trees.
He is blazing out the trail
Through the fields of nodding rice
For the swift and whistling wings
Of his She-shé-be,
For the worn and weary wings
Of many duck—
Ho! Plenty duck! Plenty duck!
Ho! Plenty, plenty duck!
Hí! Hi! Hí! Hi!
Heé-ya! Hói-ya!
Heé-ya! Hói-ya!
Keétch-ie Má-ni-dó, Má-ni-dó,
The hunter-moon is chipping,
Chipping at his flints,
At his dripping bloody flints;
He is rising for the hunt,
And his face is red with blood
From the spears of many spruces,
And his blood is on the leaves
That flutter down.
The Winter-Maker, White Bee-bóan,
Is walking in the sky,
And his windy blanket
Rustles in the trees.
He is blazing out the trail
Through the fields of nodding rice
For the swift and whistling wings
Of his She-shé-be,
For the worn and weary wings
Of many duck—
Ho! Plenty duck! Plenty duck!
Ho! Plenty, plenty duck!
More slowly
and quietly,
verging on a
chant.
and quietly,
verging on a
chant.
Hí! Hi!
Hí! Hi!
Hí! Hi!
Hí! Hi!
Hóy-eeeeeee! Ya!
Hóy-eeeeeee! Ya!
Keétch-ie Má-ni-dó, Má-ni-dó,
The seasons have been barren.
In the Moon-of-Sugar-Making,
And the Moon-of-Flowers-and-Grass,
From the blighted berry patches
And the maple-sugar bush,
The hands of all my children
Came home empty, came home clean.
The big rain of Nee-bin, the Summer-Maker,
Washed away the many little partridge.
And good Ad-ík-kum-áig, sweet whitefish,
Went sulking all the summer-moons,
Hiding in the deepest waters,
Silver belly in the mud,
And he would not walk into my nets! Ugh!
Thus the skin-sacks and the mó-kuks
Hang within my weég-a-wam empty.
Hí! Hi!
Hí! Hi!
Hí! Hi!
Hóy-eeeeeee! Ya!
Hóy-eeeeeee! Ya!
Keétch-ie Má-ni-dó, Má-ni-dó,
The seasons have been barren.
In the Moon-of-Sugar-Making,
And the Moon-of-Flowers-and-Grass,
From the blighted berry patches
And the maple-sugar bush,
The hands of all my children
Came home empty, came home clean.
The big rain of Nee-bin, the Summer-Maker,
Washed away the many little partridge.
And good Ad-ík-kum-áig, sweet whitefish,
Went sulking all the summer-moons,
Hiding in the deepest waters,
Silver belly in the mud,
And he would not walk into my nets! Ugh!
Thus the skin-sacks and the mó-kuks
Hang within my weég-a-wam empty.
Soon the winter moon will come,
Slipping through the silent timber,
Walking on the silent snow,
To be chanted
from this point
on—slower in
rate—higher
and higher in
pitch—mount-
ing to melan-
choly wailing.
Stalking on the frozen lake.
Lean-bellied,
Squatting with his rump upon the ice,
The phantom wolf will fling
His wailings to the stars.
Then Weén-di-go, the Devil-Spirit,
Whining through the lodge-poles,
Will clutch and shake my teepee,
Calling,
Calling,
Calling as he sifts into my lodge;
And ghostly little shadow-arms
Will float out through
The smoke-hole in the night—
Leaping, tossing shadow-arms,
A sustained
wailing chant,
gathering power
steadily.
Little arms of little children,
Hungry hands of shadow-arms,
Clutching,
Clutching,
Clutching at the breast that is not there. . .
Shadow-arms and shadow breasts. . .
Twisting,
Twisting,
Twisting in and twisting out
On the ghastly clouds of smoke. . .
Riding on the whistling wind. . . .
Riding on the whistling wind. . . . . . .
Riding on the whistling wind. . . . . . . . . . .
Starward!. . .
Blow, blow, blow Kee-wáy-din, North Wind,
Warm and gentle on my children,
Cold and swift upon the wild She-she-be,
Ha-a-ah-eee-ooo . . . Plenty duck. . .
Ha-a-a-a-ah-eeee-ooooo . . . Plenty duck. . . .
Slipping through the silent timber,
Walking on the silent snow,
To be chanted
from this point
on—slower in
rate—higher
and higher in
pitch—mount-
ing to melan-
choly wailing.
Stalking on the frozen lake.
Lean-bellied,
Squatting with his rump upon the ice,
The phantom wolf will fling
His wailings to the stars.
Then Weén-di-go, the Devil-Spirit,
Whining through the lodge-poles,
Will clutch and shake my teepee,
Calling,
Calling,
Calling as he sifts into my lodge;
And ghostly little shadow-arms
Will float out through
The smoke-hole in the night—
Leaping, tossing shadow-arms,
A sustained
wailing chant,
gathering power
steadily.
Little arms of little children,
Hungry hands of shadow-arms,
Clutching,
Clutching,
Clutching at the breast that is not there. . .
Shadow-arms and shadow breasts. . .
Twisting,
Twisting,
Twisting in and twisting out
On the ghastly clouds of smoke. . .
Riding on the whistling wind. . . .
Riding on the whistling wind. . . . . . .
Riding on the whistling wind. . . . . . . . . . .
Starward!. . .
Blow, blow, blow Kee-wáy-din, North Wind,
Warm and gentle on my children,
Cold and swift upon the wild She-she-be,
Ha-a-ah-eee-ooo . . . Plenty duck. . .
Ha-a-a-a-ah-eeee-ooooo . . . Plenty duck. . . .
Faster—with a
lilt—dancing
rhythm.
lilt—dancing
rhythm.
Hí! Hi! Hí! Hi!
Hí! Hi! Hí! Hi!
Keétch-ie Má-ni-dó, Má-ni-dó,
Blow on Ah-bi-tóo-bi many wings;
Wings of teal and wings of mallard,
Wings of green and blue.
My little lake lies waiting,
Singing for her blustery lover;
Dancing on the golden-stranded shore
With many little moccasins,
Pretty little moccasins,
Beaded with her silver sands,
And with her golden pebbles.
And upon her gentle bosom
Lies Mah-nó-min, sweetest wild-rice,
Green and yellow,
Rustling blade and rippling blossom—
Hi-yee! Hi-yee! Blow on Ah-bi-tdo-bi plenty duck!
Ho! Plenty, plenty duck!
Ho! Plenty duck, plenty duck!
Ho! Ho!
Hí! Hi! Hí! Hi!
Keétch-ie Má-ni-dó, Má-ni-dó,
Blow on Ah-bi-tóo-bi many wings;
Wings of teal and wings of mallard,
Wings of green and blue.
My little lake lies waiting,
Singing for her blustery lover;
Dancing on the golden-stranded shore
With many little moccasins,
Pretty little moccasins,
Beaded with her silver sands,
And with her golden pebbles.
And upon her gentle bosom
Lies Mah-nó-min, sweetest wild-rice,
Green and yellow,
Rustling blade and rippling blossom—
Hi-yee! Hi-yee! Blow on Ah-bi-tdo-bi plenty duck!
Ho! Plenty, plenty duck!
Ho! Plenty duck, plenty duck!
Ho! Ho!
Hí! Hi! Hí! Hi! Hí! Hi! í! Hit
Hée-ya! Hoi-yat Hée-ya! Hoi-ya!
Keétch-ie Má-ni-dó, Má-ni-dó,
I place this pretty duck upon your hand;
Upon its sunny palm and in its windy fingers.
Faster, louder,
with a vigorous
lilting beat—
with abandon.
Hi-yeee! Blue and beautiful
Is he, beautifully blue!
Carved from sleeping cedar with abandon.
When the stars like silver fishes
Were a-quiver in the rivers of the sky;
Carved from dripping cedar
When the Kóo-koo-kóo dashed hooting
At the furtive feet
That rustle in the leaves—
Hi! And seasoned many moons, many moons,
Ho! Seasoned many, many, many sleeps!
Hi-yeee! Blue and beautiful
Is he, beautifully blue!
Though his throat is choked with wood,
And he honks not on his pole,
And his wings are weak with hunger,
Yet his heart is plenty good.
Hi-yee! His heart is plenty good!
Hi-yee! Plenty good, plenty good!
Hi-yee! Hi-yee! Hi-yee! His heart is good! . . .
Hée-ya! Hoi-yat Hée-ya! Hoi-ya!
Keétch-ie Má-ni-dó, Má-ni-dó,
I place this pretty duck upon your hand;
Upon its sunny palm and in its windy fingers.
Faster, louder,
with a vigorous
lilting beat—
with abandon.
Hi-yeee! Blue and beautiful
Is he, beautifully blue!
Carved from sleeping cedar with abandon.
When the stars like silver fishes
Were a-quiver in the rivers of the sky;
Carved from dripping cedar
When the Kóo-koo-kóo dashed hooting
At the furtive feet
That rustle in the leaves—
Hi! And seasoned many moons, many moons,
Ho! Seasoned many, many, many sleeps!
Hi-yeee! Blue and beautiful
Is he, beautifully blue!
Though his throat is choked with wood,
And he honks not on his pole,
And his wings are weak with hunger,
Yet his heart is plenty good.
Hi-yee! His heart is plenty good!
Hi-yee! Plenty good, plenty good!
Hi-yee! Hi-yee! Hi-yee! His heart is good! . . .
Broken and
brusquely
brusquely
My heart like his is good!
Ugh! My tongue talks straight!
Ho!